Divine Intervention
by SerendipityDreamer
Summary: On September 23, 2000, Sherlock Holmes and Rebecca Walker were married. In 2002, Hamish Holmes was born to two loving parents. In 2005, the flat at 221B Baker Street became a home. On December 4, 2007, Hamish Holmes lost his mother and Sherlock Holmes lost his wife. On December 7, 2007, Hamish Holmes decided he would find someone to make his father happy.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, readers! Remember my amazing friend Katharine who allowed me to publish a story of hers on my fan fiction accounts? Well this AU also comes from her magnificent brain. And, considering her birthday is coming up in a few days, I thought this story could be an early birthday present and an overall thank you to how much I appreciate her.**

**Katharine, you're the bomb diggity (that means you're amazing)**

* * *

Hamish Holmes was very young when his mother died, but her memory is very much alive in his mind. He remembers how she would tell horrible puns that made everyone laugh, even Dad. He remembers how infectious her smile was and how her laugh bubbled up slowly before erupting in a burst of joy. He remembers sitting on the floor and listening to his mother and father create beautiful music, the room filled with a harmonious melody of a violin and a piano. He remembers how angry her mother would get when Sherlock wouldn't clean up his experiments, but then she would give a world weary sigh and hold Hamish close to whisper softly in his hair, "I fell in love with a stupid genius. But oh, he's still wonderful."

There are many things Hamish remembers about his mother, but what he remembers most vividly was his father's heartbreak.

Sherlock Holmes was not a man of great emotion; there were no grand declarations of love nor were there heartbreaking sob stories about minute tragedies throughout the day. Yes, things were often blown far out of proportion (a drama queen is a drama queen), but Sherlock was never a man who liked his emotions put on display. Therefore, his eventual marriage to Hamish's mother was a surprise to everyone who knew the hard-hearted man. In the public eye, Sherlock Holmes was still Sherlock Holmes, but in the privacy of 221B, Sherlock Holmes could be gentle, caring, and utterly human.

There's a picture on the mantle of Sherlock on his wedding day. He's standing alone in a well-cut suit and his cold and calculating eyes are staring directly into the lens. The picture next to it is of Sherlock's young bride, Rebecca. Her brown hair is loose and slightly wavy, illuminated by the wedding vail perched on her head; and her dress is simple and elegant, adorned with a striking blue sash. Her eyes are not focused on the camera, but instead staring off into the distance and perhaps to some wonderful future. Her smile says that that future is as wonderful as it looks.

The third picture is placed artfully between the other two. Sherlock's hair has fallen in front of his eyes, but his gaze is certainly fixed on his laughing bride. He's hugging her tightly from behind, perhaps whispering some horrible joke in her ear, and she's smiling and laughing as she tries to keep her veil from tipping over. The portrait is candid, and it is the culmination of two strong souls being truly happy.

Hamish wasn't even in school when his mother became very sick. He remembers sitting down in Sherlock's lap facing his mum, and he remembers crying when she said she had cancer. Hamish couldn't quite grasp the gravity of the situation, but he knew it was bad.

As his mother underwent chemotherapy, her smile faltered. She didn't laugh as loudly and she couldn't move so quickly. The immense pain caused her to take medication every six hours, leaving her listless. She stopped playing the piano, so Father's violin pieces sounded oddly lonely. Hamish remembered tucking his father tucking him into be when his mother was too tired, and Hamish would have to sing his own lullabies and tell himself his own stories.

On December 4, 2007, 21 days before Christmas, 221B Baker Street stopped feeling like home.

The night after his mother's funeral and burial, Hamish couldn't sleep. He didn't want to tell himself another story or sing himself another lullaby, but his father...his father barely looked at him tonight. Slowly, Hamish slid out of his bed and tiptoed across his room, slipping into the hallway silently. He avoided all of the creaks in the floorboards and made his way to the kitchen, aiming to pour himself a glass of water and return to bed.

Hamish didn't see his father at first, because the flat was still in darkness. When the clouds shifted outside and allowed the moon to illuminate the night, Hamish tensed at the sight of his father curled up on the couch. Hamish had known he shouldn't see him like this, that his father doesn't _want_ to be seen like this, but Hamish can't look away. He notices the center picture is missing from the mantle, the candid shot of his mother and father that everyone loved so much. Hamish then saw the picture clutched in his father's hand, and he saw his father's body trembling and his face stained with tears.

Hamish abandoned his mission and returned to his room to tuck himself back into bed. It was that night that Hamish Holmes decided he would find someone who loved his Dad just like his mother had, because Hamish couldn't bear to see his father cry again.

* * *

**As always, constructive criticism is welcome!**

**Yours till the fire works,**

**SerendipityDreamer**


	2. Chapter 2

**An update? Dang, this is a miracle in itself considering my track record. I'll do my best to keep updates at once a month minimum, but this time it was more than laziness keeping me busy! I have two AP American assignments to work on, and hot tamale they were time consuming. Hopefully the rest of my summer too much, and I hope you guys are having a great one too!**

**As always, constructive criticism is appreciated. Enjoy! ^.^**

* * *

Exactly six hours after Hamish went back to bed, Sherlock Holmes decides he would never cry again. His solution to said problem is to lock away his heart.

At 8:00 A.M., Sherlock removes two pictures along with their frames from the mantle, which has grown pleasantly warm from the roasting fire which had been lit an hour before, and puts them in a cardboard box. At 8:05, Sherlock begins to collect any stray reminders of his now dead wife and puts them in the box. By 8:15, the box is filled with jewelry, a hairbrush, perfume, photographs, and sticky notes with lovingly written reminders. At 8:20, Sherlock shoves the box high up into the closet, hidden where dust builds and spiders crawl. Her clothing is next, and it all goes into another much larger box, which is once more shoved into the closet to collect dust and draw moths.

Sherlock shuts the closet door, which resides in an odd little corner between his bedroom and Hamish's. It's filled with linens and other odd household items that hold no true meaning for Sherlock. It's perfect.

There is, however, one final knot Sherlock has yet to tie up. He moves quickly and with purpose to the living room, where in a gorgeous silver frame is a lovely candid picture of a very happy couple.

Sherlock removes the picture from its frame and presses a gentle kiss to the woman's face before he tosses it into the flames. The picture ignites at the edges, turning charcoal black as the happy faces begin to warp and melt in the heat. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Till death did them part.

In the span of half an hour, Sherlock Holmes has locked his heart and thrown away the key.

Hamish woke at 9:00 A.M. with all traces of his mother gone, save for the piano standing in the corner of the flat, now covered in a thin coat of dust.

His father was nowhere in sight, so Hamish decides to make his own breakfast. He plugs in the toaster, opens the new loaf of bread on the counter, and smiles softly at the fresh smell. Mrs. Hudson had been buying groceries for the Holmes' ever since Rebecca had been diagnosed. Sherlock couldn't even be trusted to buy milk, let alone buy enough food for Hamish, so Mrs. Hudson volunteered for the job.

Hamish slides the slices into the toaster and pushes the lever down; as he waits, he walks towards the living room. He moves first to where he saw his father crying. He feels the seat, which has now gone cold, meaning his father had not been sitting there for a long time. Hamish glances around the room to look for any other evidence, but his eyes settle on the nearly bare mantle.

Hamish frowns as he walks towards the mantle, wondering where his father has hidden the photographs, but his eyes wander to the smoldering ashes in the fireplace. Hamish bent at his knees and scanned the hearth with narrow eyes, carefully plucking a small charcoal colored corner of paper from the ashes.

As the toast pops out of the toaster, it clicks in Hamish's brain that his father never plans to love again.

Too bad for Sherlock that Holmes men are stubborn, and Hamish has just enough Holmes in him to make sure his father finds someone to make him happy again.

Around noon, Sherlock returned to the flat to find his son curled up in the corner next to the piano with his fist clenched in his soft blue sweater. At the sound of the door clicking shut, Hamish looked at his father with anger in his bloodshot eyes and spoke barely above a whisper, "Why did you burn her?"

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line before moving towards the kitchen, focusing instead on the mess of crumbs Hamish had left on the counter from his toast, "You know Mrs. Hudson would never approve of such a mess."

Like a hurricane brewing, Hamish slowly rose to his feet with his fists clenched tightly and his face smeared with snot and tears, "You burned all of the pictures. Why?"

Sherlock sighed but didn't look at his son; he looked too much like her. Sherlock spoke slowly, his voice monotone, "I only burned one, and it was an accident."

"Liar," Hamish muttered, stalking towards his father with as much hot-blooded rage as a five-year old could muster, "You did it on purpose."

Sherlock frowned and closed his eyes, "Hamish, you don't-"

"I miss her, too."

Sherlock tensed and clenched his fist at his son's words, but remained silent. No, he could never allow himself to cry in front of his son, in front of anyone really.

Hamish, whose rage had begun to simmer with the arrival of fat tears in his eyes, spoke in broken blubbers, "I cried and cried when she died, but I always got to look at that picture and remember her, but now you took it away," Hamish stomped his foot on the ground and swung at his father, hitting him in the thigh, "You burned her!"

Sherlock reached down and scooped Hamish up into his arms, tossing the wailing boy over his shoulder and ignoring the tiny fists pounding into his back and the trails of snot being wiped onto his shoulder. Sherlock moved quickly, opening the door to Hamish's room and setting his son on the bed. He avoided his son's attempts to grab at him and shut the door, holding the doorknob tightly as he heard his son shout, "I hate you!"

In a fit of anger, Hamish pushes over his toy chest, but in a wave of sadness he immediately picks it back up. Hamish lets his body be shaken by sobs and wipes his nose on his sleeve, and he wishes that Mum was here to hold him and give him tissues and tell him that Dad was a stupid genius and that they could all go and get ice cream in Regent's Park like they used to.

At some point, Hamish fell asleep curled up on the floor, and at another point, Sherlock slipped the candid portrait of his wife under Hamish's door.

That was the last time Hamish and Sherlock had ever spoken of her.

* * *

**Yours till the summer times,**

**SerendipityDreamer**


	3. Chapter 3

**Holy pumpernickel bread, another update! This one hurt my heart a little bit (well, actually a lot) but I love it! A great big shoutout once more to the fantastic Katharine, who came up with this au, and thanks to my friend Kelly for proofreading. I struggle with switching between the past and present tense a lot. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"You should consider putting him into a proper school."

"I'm perfectly capable of carrying out Hamish's education."

"Of course you are, love. I'm just concerned he won't...develop."

Sherlock Holmes stands at the fireplace mantle, toying with the skull which now fills the spot of the burned picture. Mrs. Holmes sits on the couch across the room, her hands folded in her lap and her brow scrunching in concern.

Sherlock's parents had arrived at Baker Street an hour earlier, and it was their first visit since Rebecca's funeral. Being five days before Christmas, Mrs. Hudson put up a small plastic tree in the flat, in an effort to get the boys in 221B into the holiday spirit. Sherlock, however, was becoming antisocial, and Hamish was beginning to follow suit.

Mycroft had grown concerned for his brother and his nephew, but he could not attend to them himself. Therefore, despite being in the middle of diffusing an international crisis in the Middle East, Mycroft arranged for his parents to pay Sherlock and Hamish a visit.

Sherlock should have known something was amiss when his parents showed up at the door unannounced, and he should have protested when his father offered to take Hamish out to buy an early Christmas present.

Now Sherlock stands in his flat five days before Christmas on the verge of calling Mycroft, and his mother sat on the couch with pure concern for her son and her grandson.

"I know Rebecca wanted him in public school, but perhaps he could go to Wetherby. Mike gives a donation every quarter, so I'm sure-"

"I don't need Mycroft putting my son through school," Sherlock practically growls, startling his mother, "He'll be fine being home schooled."

Mrs. Holmes purses her lips and shakes her head, "But Rebecca took him out into the world. They went to the park, she had him in a playgroup at the library, and she made sure he focused on his reading. You're always so focused on your work."

"Hamish can read just fine, and I can focus on more than my work," Sherlock huffs, becoming unnerved by his mother's casual use of his wife's name, "He'll be fine."

"He's five years old, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes pleads, "He needs to have social interaction."

"Why do you think he has me?" Sherlock quips, his fuse growing increasingly short.

"I know, but Rebecca-"

"Is dead!" Sherlock shouts, slamming the skull onto the mantle and rushing towards his mother, his eyes wild, "You talk about her like she's still here, like she still matters!"

Mrs. Holmes tenses as she watches her son fly into a fit of rage, but she keeps her voice even, having seen such fits before, "Because she is...was Hamish's mother, and she was your wife."

"And she's dead," Sherlock replies, forcing himself to calm down and chastising himself for flying off the handle, "There's no reason to mention her."

"Is that why you took down the photos then?" Mrs. Holmes asks, "Are you trying to just erase her? Because that's not right to do to Hamish...or to yourself."

Sherlock doesn't answer, but he allows himself to stare at the mantle when his mother gestures towards it, "Hamish will be home schooled until I see fit."

Mrs. Holmes nods, knowing she wouldn't get an answer from her son, "All right, but please consider putting him into a proper school. You might not realize it, but he needs it."

Sherlock hums and glances at the window, moving towards it watching as a cab pulled up in front of the flat and seeing his father and Hamish step out. He clicks his tongue as he sees Hamish clutching a box of Legos to his chest, muttering softly, "He loves those damned toy bricks. Useless."

Mrs. Holmes frowns at her son's words, standing and going to open the door, "Let him be a boy, Sherlock. That's all I ask."

As Hamish bounds up the stairs to proudly show off his new Legos to his father, Mr. Holmes walks up to his wife and whispered in her ear, concern furrowing his brow. Sherlock smiles briefly at Hamish before watching with narrow eyes at his parents conversing in hushed tones. Hamish frowns and glances nervously between his father and his grandparents, believing he was the reason for whatever was going on.

* * *

The night before Christmas Eve, Hamish was sitting on his bed clutching the picture of his mother tightly in his hands. In the weeks since the picture was slipped beneath his door, Hamish has studied it very night before he goes to bed, fearful that if he doesn't, he would forget what she looked like. Hamish tenses as he hears his father walking towards his room, and he quickly stuffs the photograph back into his pillowcase.

Sherlock enters Hamish's room with a small sigh, moving to stand over his son, "You're usually asleep by now. What's wrong?"

Hamish shrugs, pulling down his sheets and covering his legs, "I dunno. Stuff."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of the bed, pulling the sheets up to Hamish's chest, "You enjoy going to visit Gran and Gramps. Why is this visit bothering you?"

Hamish frowns, knowing his father could see right through him, and hating it, "It's nothing."

"It's never nothing," Sherlock quips, combing a hand through Hamish's hair before standing.

"Fine," Hamish huffs, nestling closer into his cocoon of sheets, "It's nothing I want you to know about."

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, taken back by his son's remark, but quickly shuts it. He steps back across the room, moving to close the door, "Goodnight, Hamish."

The door closes, leaving Hamish to his thoughts and Sherlock to his own. Holmes men should never be left to their own thoughts; they notoriously overthink everything.

* * *

The day begins at 9:00 A.M., when Hamish stumbles sleepily from his room to find the kitchen a complete and utter mess. His father sits in the middle of it with his lab goggles hanging around his neck and a look of pure annoyance of his face.

"Dad?"

"Experiment," Sherlock mumbles, "Reactive properties of human fingers in corrosive acid at varying temperatures."

"Eww," Hamish replies, scrunching his nose, "How did it explode?"

Sherlock shrugs and glances around the kitchen, looking as if he didn't know how he got here, "Mixture of unstable chemicals. Accidental, of course. Mrs. Hudson will be livid."

Hamish smiles softly and scratches at his head, his stomach growling softly, "I guess I'm going to her for breakfast, huh?"

Sherlock nods and works the goggles over his head, tossing them into the sink and beginning to clean the countertops, "Bring back some biscuits. She usually bakes enough to share. It is Christmas Eve after all." Sherlock says the last part with a tone of bitterness, and Hamish picks up in it.

"You used to like Christmas, Dad," Hamish replies, a slight frown on his face.

Sherlock glances at his son, his eyes hard, "It's different now."

Hamish bites his lip and turns away, leaving the flat quickly and shutting the door behind him. Of course it was different. Christmas was only enjoyable when there were three people living in 221B.

* * *

"Do you want milk, dear?"

"Yes, please. Thank you."

Hamish watches as Mrs. Hudson fills his glass with milk while he cut the pancakes on his plate into bite size pieces. He kicks his legs back and forth beneath the table, a small smile on his face as he dips a piece into maple syrup before putting it into his mouth.

Mrs. Hudson smiles as she watches Hamish eat, her heart aching for the boy. She hasn't been able to talk to Sherlock about Rebecca's death because the man absolutely refuses to mention her. Mrs. Hudson has watched the pair suffer silently over the past few weeks, and Mrs. Hudson simply knows that Sherlock is suffering more than he lets on, and that Hamish is virtually alone.

"How's your father, Ham?" Mrs. Hudson asks, moving to set the milk back in the fridge.

"Blew up the kitchen again," Hamish hums, using one hand to push his hair out of his eyes, "I'm glad you made pancakes."

Mrs. Hudson sighs and shakes her head, "I just knew something would happen. Your father would never let Christmas just be Christmas," she straightens up and moves toward the sink, cleaning the dishes she had used earlier, "Don't you ever be like that."

Hamish smiles as he eats, but as he stabs his next piece of pancake, he pauses and frowns, "He didn't used to be like this...all angry. It's just been since..." he trails off, his brow furrowing.

Mrs. Hudson sighs and dries her hands, moving towards Hamish and wrapping an arm around him, "It's all right, love. I know."

Hamish nods and resumes eating. He glances up when Mrs. Hudson moves back to the sink, and he watches her as she putters around the kitchen. Hamish couldn't help but remember how his mother used to do the same.

* * *

About an hour and a half later, Sherlock and Hamish sat silently in the back of cab, respectively staring out of their own windows. Their overnight bags were cozily stored in the boot, and a small collection of Christmas gifts sits in the space between them. Sherlock and Hamish have grown increasingly distant over the past few weeks, and the onset of Christmas have made things even worse. When their family was still whole, Sherlock and his wife took Hamish out to see Santa Claus, and they would sit together in Speedy's, drink hot chocolate, and write Hamish's Christmas list. They could stay there for hours, laughing and making merry, Sherlock practically glowing as he watched his wife and son sing along with the Christmas carols over the radio. Then they would mail Hamish's letter and go home to set about to make cookies for Santa, which always ended with Rebecca chastising Sherlock for forgetting to buy milk for the jolly old man, "You simply can't leave Santa cookies without milk. The man needs to have a clear throat to call out to his reindeer."

Sherlock glances towards his son, sighing inwardly. It was different now, and it would never be the same again.

He clears his throat and smiles weakly as Hamish turned to him, "Are you excited then? For Christmas?"

Hamish shrugs, "I guess so."

"Did you write your list for Santa?" Sherlock asks, digging his fingernails into his palm as he speaks. He doesn't like letting his son believe in such a foolish Christmas tale, but ignorance is bliss.

Hamish nods, but bites his lip, "I don't wanna mail it."

Sherlock purses his lips, raising an eyebrow, "Do you want to mail it when we get to Gran and Gramps? You always-"

"I'm sure," Hamish cuts in, looking increasingly nervous, "I just...it's silly. It's not like Santa can give me everything, right?"

Sherlock watches as his son turns away, looking out the window once more. Sherlock sighs, hating that he felt so helpless, and merely contents himself with running a hand through the boy's hair.

* * *

"Hamish, don't you like turkey?"

"I do, Gran. I'm just not very hungry."

Hamish sits with his ankles crossed beneath the dining room table, poking at that turkey on his plate with his fork. Sherlock, sitting across from his him, picks at the glob of sweet potatoes on his plate. Sherlock's parents sit at the opposite heads of the table, their plates already half empty. The table, adorned with a festive red and green cloth, is strewn with steaming bowls of vegetables, a golden brown turkey, and a small tender ham.

Mycroft, unfortunately, was still in tangles in the Middle East, so it wasn't truly a family Christmas. And anyone who had been to the funeral a few weeks ago would know that even if Mycroft was there, the Holmes family would still be missing a rather important member.

Mr. Holmes clears his throat before glancing at his son, reaching over and cutting a thin slice of ham, "So, Sherlock, how are your cases going?"

"Remember your cholesterol, love," Mrs. Holmes scolds, pointing her fork at her husband, "You have the doctor next week."

"Slow season," Sherlock replies, ignoring his mother and not making eye contact, "Criminals have some odd code of honor it seems."

Mr. Holmes rolls his eyes at his wife's comment but nods towards his son. He sets the ham slice onto his plate before turning to Hamish, "And what about you? Are you excited for Santa tomorrow?"

Hamish shrugs, a common response now, setting his fork down, "I dunno. May I be excused?"

"Why you've barely eaten," Mrs. Holmes cuts in, frowning, "You need to eat at least half of that."

"But I don't want to," Hamish replies, crossing his arms, "I want to play with the Legos Gramps got me."

"Listen to your Gran, Hamish," Mr. Holmes sighs, "And she's right. You need to eat."

"But Dad doesn't," Hamish whines, "So why do I have to?"

"Because you're still a boy," Mrs. Holmes replies, cutting into her slice of turkey, "Eat. It's final."

"Go play with your blocks," Sherlock speaks up, picking up a forkful of peas, "It's fine."

Hamish beams and bolts from the table, running towards his room where the Legos lay strewn on the floor. Mr. Holmes watches his grandson leave, and Mrs. Holmes drops her utensils and stares daggers at her younger son.

Sherlock meets her gaze and slowly sets down his fork, "He's my son."

"Rebecca would have never allowed that. And if it had been her saying what I said, you would have agreed with her."

Sherlock pushes his chair back from the table and rises to his feet, "You're not his mother, and neither is she. Not anymore."

"Perhaps if you started acting like a father-"

"I am," Sherlock hisses before storming away from the table, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Holmes in silence to finish their meal.

* * *

Mycroft lets out a slow breath as his car pulls up to his childhood home. He bids a fond farewell and a Merry Christmas to his driver before stepping out of the car. He doesn't need luggage, as he would be leaving in the morning, and his parents keep clothes for both him and Sherlock in case they ever need to stay the night. Mycroft checks his watch as he makes his way to the door, frowning as he sees it's nearly midnight.

Mycroft unlocks the door and does his best to stay quiet, but he gives up all hope for that when he sees his brother perched on the couch with his hands pressed together in concentration. As the door clicks shut, Sherlock's hands part and the brothers' gazes meet.

Sherlock scowls, sitting up, "I was hoping you wouldn't arrive until after I left. Or at the very least, tomorrow morning."

"Is it so bad I wanted to surprise my family by coming home early?" Mycroft replies haughtily, taking off his jacket and hanging it up, "Really, Sherlock, have a little holiday spirit."

"You hate it too," Sherlock huffs, crossing his arms "All of the mindless merchandising and the uncontrollable toddlers, sniveling for the latest and greatest toy, along with the ceaseless chanting of Christmas carols. November is hardly over when Christmas time begins."

"I might recall that last year you rather enjoyed all of that drivel, or at least you tried to," Mycroft replied, arching an eyebrow.

Sherlock tenses and looks away, his voice flat, "And I might recall that you rather enjoyed Mummy's Christmas feast last year. I must say, you've lost the weight rather well."

Mycroft hums and walks towards his brother, glancing down at him before walking down the hallway, speaking over his shoulder, "You can bury the body, Sherlock, but you can't bury the memory."

"We'll see," Sherlock replies coldly, rising to his feet and going upstairs to his old room, deciding that perhaps sleep was a more attractive option than speaking to his brother.

* * *

After stepping into his parents room for a quick hello (he meant for it to be quick, but Mummy was always asking questions), Mycroft creeps back down the hall and into Hamish's room, pressing his lips together when he saw his nephew sleeping. He was hoping he would arrive before Hamish's bedtime, as the boy kept odd hours like his father, but the trip and the day's rather uncomfortable events must have tired him out. Mycroft moves slowly towards him, pulling up the boy's covers to his chin, and smiles softly.

Mycroft wishes he was able to visit his nephew more often. Where Sherlock had cursed his brother's presence, Rebecca had welcomed him with open arms. She was charming and respectful and wasn't afraid to argue with Mycroft if his tone became too judgemental. Sherlock had absolutely deserved her; but he never deserved to lose her, not the way he did.

Mycroft turns to leave, and perhaps seek out some rest of his own, when his eyes fall to Hamish's suitcase in the corner of the room. He spies an envelope sticking out, with bright red letters written in a child's tell tale scrawl, and Mycroft allows his curiosity to get the better of him. He grabs the letter and smiles slightly as he reads Mr. Santa Claus; North Pole. He does his best to silently open the envelope, his face slowly changing as he reads the letter:

_Dear Santa,_

_This year, I think I've been pretty good. I used to always get really mad at my dad, but I've been a lot better lately. Sometimes I forget that he gets really moody, b̶u̶t̶ ̶m̶u̶m̶ ̶a̶l̶w̶a̶y̶s̶ ̶r̶e̶m̶i̶n̶d̶s̶ ̶m̶e̶. I know I'm so lucky to have t̶h̶e̶m̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶y̶'̶r̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶s̶t̶ ̶C̶h̶r̶i̶s̶t̶m̶a̶s̶ ̶g̶i̶f̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶.̶ If you're going to bring me something, I would only like these things:_

_Legos!_  
_A new journal_  
_Maybe my own camera?_  
_m̶y̶ ̶m̶o̶m̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶e̶ ̶b̶a̶c̶k̶_

_Thanks,_

_Hamish Holmes_

_P.S. Ignore the cross outs. They're not important._

Mycroft frowns, because he knows that everything his nephew had crossed out was rather incredibly important.

He returns the letter to its envelope and puts the envelope back in its proper place before creeping back out of the room and shutting the door behind him. Mycroft, for perhaps the second time in his life, wasn't sure what to do.

* * *

**Yours till the honey suckles, **

**SerendipityDreamer**


End file.
